Holding Water

Reaching into my clay
and gripping.
What I’ve seized upon forms
a ball, then a tube ridged
from where my fingers have dug in,
then it squirts away into nothing
because I’m strong enough,

but that leaves me with
an empty hand
and nothing with which
to work.

I wanted to make a bowl,
something to drink from;

the trick, I guess, is knowing how
to hold on enough
to shape the desired form
but not so tightly
that it disappears
from the effort.

It’s a trick
I’ve never learned.
I won’t learn it perfectly,
ever.  Too attached
to being right to know
better, even when I can
put knowing better
into words.

When you’re forever gripping your own clay
so tightly that you come up
with nothing but dregs on you palms, though,
yet claim that the air before you is now
a masterpiece,

I begin to see how to proceed,
and I let go…because

while there’s nothing I can make of myself
you’ll be unable to break,
nothing you’ll make of yourself
will actually hold the water
each of us needs to survive.